PS 
3501 


THREE  THINGS 


I  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


;HOOL 


THE  THREE  THINGS 


THE  THREE  THINGS 


THE  FORGE  IN  WHICH  THE  SOUL 
OF  A  MAN  WAS  TESTED 


BY 

MARY  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE,"  ETC. 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1918 


2938 


Copyright,  1915, 
BY  THE  CURTIS  PDBLISHING  COMPANY. 


Copyright,  1915, 
BY  MARY  KAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS. 


All  rights  reserved 


Printers 
8.  J.  PARKHILL  &  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


- 


THE  THREE  THINGS 


HIS   mother  listened,   staring  out  at 
the  colors  of   the   August   garden. 
She  had  heard  such  tirades  before, 
but  he  had  never,  it  seemed,  been  quite  so 
extreme. 

"The  President  asked  us,"  she  put  in  a 
word,  "to  be  neutral." 

*  "Neutral!"     The    boy    flung    the    word 

back.     "Neutral!     When  it  means  civiliza- 
.  '        tion  against  barbarism  !     Gentlemen  against 
Huns;    Englishmen  and  Frenchmen  whom 
*       we  know  for  straight  and  clean,  against  - 
y       the  unspeakable  German  I     From  the  Kaiser 
V        down  —  seventy  millions  of  canaille;    a  na 
tion    of    vulgarians    glorified    by    brains  — 
which  can't  save  'em."     His  fist  banged  on 
k4*        the  oak  table.     "Which  can't  save  'em  from 
their    vulgarity.     Breeding    is    blood,     not 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

brains.  I've  been  in  Germany;  I  know 
'em.  A  beastly  swarm  of  day  laborers, 
the  whole  lot,  high  and  low." 

"Phil,"  his  mother  spoke;  '"day  laborer' 
is  not  a  term  of  reproach.  It's  honorable 
to  work.  That's  a  cheap  speech." 

The  big  young  fellow  bent,  standing  be 
fore  her,  and  patted  his  mother's  slim 
shoulders.  "Beg  pardon,  Meggy,"  he  said 
boyishly.  "But  you  know  you  and  I'll 
never  agree  on  that.  I'm  for  being  kind 
to  the  proletariat,  but  I'm  not  for  blinking 
the  fact  that  they're  different.  What's 
progress  for,  and  the  sweat  of  civilization, 
if  we  don't  get  forward  with  our  efforts  — 
if  we  mark  time?" 

The  lk>y  was  off  now,  and  the  woman, 
knowing  what  was  coming,  found  her  mind 
traveling  a  bypath  parallel  —  was  it  ?  —  to 
this  inborn  snobbishness  of  her  son.  Two 
people  had  told  her  the  story;  she  knew 
it  from  two  angles;  crystallized  into  pic 
tures  it  came  as  the  boy  talked.  First, 
the  man  in  the  corner  of  the  Country  Club 
years  ago.  He  had  appeared  there,  quiet, 
well-dressed,  alone;  day  after  day  he  had 
appeared,  intruding  in  no  way,  having 
meals  at  his  own  little  table,  the  golf  in- 
[2] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

structor  his  only  companion,  cheerful,  quiet, 
day  after  day  —  there.  Till  the  men  were 
nodding  to  him,  and  on  a  day  Mrs.  Landi- 
cutt  asked  her  husband:  "Who  is  that 
man,  Grenny?" 

"That's  Morton,  the  oil  king.  Worth 
thirty  millions.  Was  a  groom  in  Lord 
Carlisle's  stables,  Drayton  told  me  —  and 
he  told  Drayton.  His  wife  died,  and  he 
came  over  here  with  his  child,  and  went 
into  the  oil  fields  as  a  day  laborer,  and  had 
a  chance  to  buy  land  and  was  lucky.  In 
five  years  he's  worth  thirty  millions.  Like 
a  fairy  story,  isn't  it?" 

"He's  a  well-behaved  man,"  Mrs.  Landi- 
cutt  reflected.  "He  doesn't  push." 

"He's  clever,"  Grenville  Landicutt  agreed. 
"Drayton  says  he  has  a  gift  of  breeding. 
Doesn't  push  and  doesn't  make  breaks. 
He's  taking  it  all  in,  and  learning  to  be  a 
gentleman;  that's  my  theory." 

A  time  came  when  Philip  Morton  began 
to  play  golf  with  the  men  who  had  nodded 
to  him;  began  to  be  presented  to  their 
wives ;  then  one  day  Mrs.  Landicutt,  the 
queen  bee,  asked  him,  as  he  came  in  from 
thirty-six  holes  with  her  husband,  to  stop 
for  tea.  Too  thoroughbred,  too  genuine  to 

[3] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

hesitate  about  liking  anyone  whom  she 
liked,  be  he  duke  or  tailor,  she  came  to 
like  him. 

Then,  on  a  day,  he  told  her  his  story,  in 
three  short  chapters :  his  love  affair  and 
marriage;  his  wife's  death,  and  despair 
and  loneliness,  ending  in  the  new  life  in 
America ;  then  sudden,  overwhelming  wealth. 

"It  was  always  my  wish  to  be  a  gentle 
man,"  he  explained.  "I  don't  mean  rich, 
but  to  have  the  ways  and  the  speech  and 
the  —  the  thoughts  of  a  real  gentleman. 
Do  you  think  I  can?"  He  asked  the  ques 
tion  wistfully.  There  certainly  was  some 
thing  winning  about  this  ex-groom. 

"I  think  you  are  a  very  fine  gentleman 
in  some  ways  now,"  Mrs.  Landicutt  told 
him  heartily.  Morton  flushed.  "That's 
kind  of  you,"  he  said,  "but  it  isn't  what 
I  mean." 

"There  are  better  things  than  just  breed 
ing."  Mrs.  Landicutt,  born  to  the  purple, 
assured  him. 

"What?" 

"Why,  to  be  straight  and  generous — " 
She  hesitated. 

"All  that  belongs  to  gentle  people  natu 
rally,"  the  man  spoke,  surprised. 

[4] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"Oh,  no  —  oh,  no!  And  it  is  far  finer 
to  be  —  really  good  —  than  to  be  just  an 
aristocrat." 

He  was  unconvinced.  "Well,  you  know. 
But  for  me,  what  I  want  is  to  be  —  a  gentle 
man;  and  for  my  little  girl  to  be  a  lady. 
When  she  was  a  baby  I  used  to  ride  as 
groom  with  Lord  Carlisle's  young  daughter, 
and  every  time  she  put  her  foot  in  my  hand 
to  be  mounted,  I'd  think,  'Some  day,  my 
lady,  if  I  can  bring  it  about,  my  little  baby 
will  be  such  as  you  are.'  I  have  listened, 
as  I  rode  behind,  to  their  speech  as  she 
talked  to  her  sister  or  her  friends,  and  I've 
whispered  over  the  words  after  them,  to 
learn  to  speak  them  proper  —  properly. 
She  had  the  voice  and  the  ways  of  breeding 
—  Lady  Maud ;  but  she  had  not  the  beauty 
of  my  Margaret." 

Mrs.  Landicutt  looked  interested.  "How 
old  is  your  daughter?" 

"Ten." 

"Will  you  bring  her  to  see  me?" 

Morton  went  red.  "You  are  very  good," 
he  spoke  slowly,  and  his  eyes  spoke  more. 
"I  shall  be  —  only  too  glad." 

So  it  happened  that  Margaret  Morton, 
the  daughter  of  a  groom  and  a  lady's  maid, 

[5] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

was  brought  up  under  the  wing  of  the  great 
est  lady  of  a  great  city.  Her  father  had 
not  overrated  her  beauty ;  her  charm  was 
beyond  her  beauty.  Mrs.  Landicutt,  child 
less,  grew  to  care  for  her  as  for  her  own 
child.  When  the  girl  was  eighteen  she  went 
to  England  with  the  Landicutts  and  was 
presented  at  Court  and  was  the  sensation 
of  the  season  for  her  loveliness  and  her 
millions.  In  the  glory  of  her  fine  feathers, 
in  her  Court  dress,  she  met  Everard  Landi 
cutt,  Grenville  Landicutt's  cousin,  and  in 
five  minutes  the  history  of  the  family  had 
started  on  a  new  volume.  He  was  so 
madly  in  love  that  in  a  week  Morton  was 
cabled  for,  and  the  wedding  was  two  weeks 
after. 

And  behold  it  was  now  twenty-four  years 
later,  and  the  people  who  had  made  her 
world  then  —  father,  husband,  the  Gren 
ville  Landicutts  —  had  passed  over  to  the 
majority  and  her  world  was  this  big  son 
of  twenty-three,  making  oration  at  the 
moment  as  to  the  great  war.  Suddenly 
her  heart  stopped.  What  was  the  boy 
saying  ? 

"Meggy,  I'm  going.  I  want  to  go.  Will 
you  let  me?" 

[6] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

She  stared.  He  could  not  be  in  earnest. 
She  saw  the  splendid  bones  and  sinews, 
clear  eyes,  fresh  color,  brown,  shining  hair 
with  the  loose  lock  on  the  temple  which  she 
knew;  she  saw  the  loving,  headstrong  soul 
and  faithful  heart  of  him  gazing  at  her  from 
his  eyes.  Was  she  asked  to  give  all  this, 
her  heart's  blood,  to  be  shot  down  and 
thrown  aside  like  junk?  She  could  not 
have  understood. 

"What?  What,  Phil?"  He  knelt  by 
her  and  kissed  her  hand  on  his  face. 

"I  know  it's  asking  a  lot."  He  bit  his 
lip;  stopped  a  moment.  Then  words  came 
flooding:  "But,  oh,  Meggy,  I've  got  to! 
I've  tried  to  stop  thinking,  but  I  can't. 
I've  got  to  go !  I  couldn't  keep  on  living 
the  rest  of  my  days  and  remember  that 
this  fight  had  been  put  up  for  the  decency 
of  the  world  and  I  hadn't  lifted  a  finger. 
I'd  be  wretched." 

Queer  things  were  happening  to  Margaret 
Landicutt's  heart.  It  was  turning  over  - 
and  over.  Or  something  physically  dis 
tressing.  "It's  not  our  fight,  Phillie ;  there's 
no  reason  —  you  should  go."  She  pushed 
back  the  loose  lock. 

"It  is  our  fight.     If  the  Germans  should 

m 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

win,  do  you  suppose  they'd  stop?  Not 
much.  'World  power  or  downfall.'  And 
we'd  be  the  next  bit  of  world-snatching. 
And  if  the  Germans  should  lose  and  our 
safety  be  assured,  who  would  have  won  it? 
Not  we.  We're  sitting  at  ease,  letting 
England  and  France  and  Russia  —  and 
little,  martyred  Belgium  —  fight  our  battle. 
That's  what!"  The  young  fist  came  down 
again.  "I  won't  accept  that!  If  the  coun 
try  won't  fight,  I  will !  I'll  do  my  share, 
as  a  gentleman  ought." 

"Listen,  Phil."  She  put  a  hand  each 
side  of  the  boy's  face.  "That's  not  reason. 
It's  not  dishonorable  if  we  refuse  to  take 
sides  in  a  quarrel  which  we  have  no  share 
in  making ;  no,  not  if  the  quarrel  may  have 
vital  results  for  us.  It's  not  dishonorable 
to  accept  good  which  may  come;  no,  even 
if  we  have  not  lifted  a  finger  to  help.  It  is 
honorable,  it  is  right,  to  keep  our  country 
safe;  to  keep  sane  the  only  great  country 
that  is  not  in  this  madness.  We  must  be 
the  nucleus  of  a  made-over  world.  Who's 
to  feed  the  starving,  who  are  to  be  the 
peacemakers,  if  we  go  mad  too?" 

The  boy  sprang  to  his  feet.  "I  can't 
see  it,  Meggy,  I  can  only  see  that  I  must 

[8] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

go  and  whack  at  those  canting  hounds  who 
are  wiping  out  little  Belgium.  Blood  and 
fire  and  terror  —  'with  the  help  of  God!' 
If  there  was  a  God,  how  He'd  — " 

"Phil!" 

He  stopped.  "Meggy,  I'm  sorry.  I  wish 
I  could  see  it  as  you  want.  But  I  can't. 
It's  odd,  with  you  and  me  such  friends  and 
so  agreed  about  slithers  of  things,  that 
we're  all  apart  on  two  or  three  big  ones. 
You  believe  in  the  masses  —  I  don't  take 
stock  in  the  great  unwashed.  Yes,  I  re 
member  your  father  —  my  grandfather  — 
but  he  was  different  —  and  you're  a  great 
lady.  Then,  you're  rather  deeply  religious, 
and  I'm  a  plain  unbeliever;  you're  gener 
ous  enough  to  look  for  good  in  all  humanity, 
even  in  the  Germans,  and  I'm  sure  they're 
a  nation  of  swine.  We're  different,  Meggy, 
and  I  have  to  live  my  own  life  —  my  own 
life!"  the  boy  cried,  standing  before  her, 
brilliant,  tempestuous. 

A  breeze  stirred  the  rows  of  pink  phloxes 
in  the  garden;  a  stumbling  bumblebee 
banged  heavily  against  the  glass  of  the  open 
French  door,  and  buzzed  away  into  silence. 
Fragrance  of  mignonette  was  blown  into  the 
large,  dim  library.  Ever  after  the  woman 

[9] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

could  not  smell  mignonette  without  remem 
bering  that  hour. 

The  boy  must  live  his  own  life.  What 
right  had  she  to  keep  him?  Who  knew 
what  was  waiting  of  strength  and  illumina 
tion  on  this  road  which  he  strained  at  the 
leash  to  follow?  Likely  death  was  waiting; 
not  the  less  it  was  his  life. 

There  came  to  her  suddenly  what  perhaps 
most  women  whose  boys  go  to  war  must 
feel :  a  sense  of  the  incidental  quality  of 
human  life.  What  are  a  few  years  more 
or  less  if  one  plays  the  game?  A  great 
thing  like  a  son  was  not  given  for  mere 
years ;  she  and  Phil  were  to  go  on,  comrades, 
lovers,  for  eternity.  To  her  mind  it  was 
certain.  So  —  if  he  went  to  his  death,  that 
ended  her  life  on  earth.  But  what  of  it? 
An  incident  in  eternity.  She  lifted  her 
head  high,  sat  straight  and  smiled. 

"Yes,  Phil,  you'll  have  to  go.     I'll  help 

you." 

******* 

The  second  man  down  the  trenches  was 
of  a  religious  turn  of  mind.  He  was  also 
a  crack  shot;  his  rifle  had  been  laid  for 
hours  on  a  picked  low  spot  in  the  earth 
works,  not  one  hundred  yards  away.  A 
[10] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

German  soldier  attempted  with  too  little 
caution  to  wriggle  past  that  spot;  a  bullet 
sped.  The  helmeted  head  went  down  with 
a  suddenness  which  told  the  story. 

Albert  Mullins  propped  his  Bible  on  the 
parapet  in  front  of  him  and  began  reading 
aloud.  The  first  time  he  had  done  this 
there  had  been  jokes;  the  second  time 
men  had  tried  to  howl  him  down ;  in  both 
cases  he  read  straight  along.  He  read  in 
the  measured,  overemphasized  fashion  of 
the  man  of  few  books.  "'The  Lord  is 
my  light  and  my  salvation ;  whom  shall 
I  fear?'"  inquired  Albert  Mullins  loudly. 
"The  Lord  is  the  strength  of  my  life;  of 
whom  shall  I  be  afraid  ? ' ' 

Philip  grinned,  then  listened  curiously. 
It  was  odd  that  this  ancient,  outworn  book 
should  still,  after  the  centuries,  have  a 
manner  of  magic  to  help  men  through 
trouble.  Auto-suggestion,  a  phase  of  psy 
chology;  he  turned  to  look  at  Lefty. 

Suppose  lines  and  lines  of  trenches,  each 
somewhere  near  six  feet  in  depth,  a  labyrinth 
open  to  the  sky  ;  suppose  in  the  walls  of  them 
holes,  like  graves,  straw-bedded,  a  hole  to 
each  man ;  suppose,  living  there,  human 
beings,  mud-covered,  almost  inhuman  to 

mi 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

look  at,  firing  day  and  night,  with  intervals, 
at  other  human  beings,  a  hundred  yard? 
away,  living,  dying,  killing,  much  the  same. 

Every  moment  there  are  bullets  about; 
many  like  a  suddenly  risen  wind  shrieking; 
some  making  a  noise  of  large  and  obnoxious 
mosquitoes ;  some  cracking  like  whips ;  some 
groaning;  shrapnel  bursts  around  most  of 
the  time.  To  a  highstrung  temperament  it 
is  living  in  an  inferno.  One  goes  mad  there 
time  and  again.  One  stays  there  for  two 
days,  three  days ;  one  is  relieved  for  four 
days;  then  back  again.  That  is  life  in  the 
trenches;  that  is  the  business  at  which 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  are  occupying 
themselves  at  present. 

Philip  turned  to  look  at  Lefty.  Lefty 
was  sitting  on  a  box  in  the  bottom  of  the 
trench,  quite  casual  about  the  roar  of  ar 
tillery,  mending  Philip's  stockings.  What 
would  he  have  done  without  Lefty?  From 
the  first  day  in  the  concentration  camp  on 
Salisbury  Plain  the  big  Englishman  had 
taken  the  American  boy  under  his  wing. 
Philip  had  been  amused,  tolerant,  grateful. 
Lefty  had  modified  some  theories.  There 
was  such  a  thing,  Philip  admitted  now, 
as  a  low-bred  man  with  well-bred  qualities ; 
[12] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

of  course  it  was  a  "sport"  example,  like  a 
puppy  with  points  in  a  litter  of  mongrels. 

The  man,  late  chauffeur  to  Lord  Athol, 
at  whose  place  in  Gloucestershire  Philip 
had  visited,  recognized  him.  "Mr.  Landi- 
cutt,  sir,"  he  said  at  once,  touching  his  cap 
groom  fashion. 

Philip  had  written  to  his  mother  that  she 
would  be  pleased  to  see  him  growing  demo 
cratic;  that  Tommy  Athol's  chauffeur  was 
his  best  friend  —  all  the  time  superbly 
scornful  of  the  friendship.  Yet,  as  he 
looked  at  Lefty  darning  away  —  expert, 
lefthanded  —  at  the  socks,  it  came  to  him, 
was  he  scornful  now?  And  then,  shock  on 
shock,  would  not  a  fellow  be  a  cad  to  keep 
such  an  attitude  toward  such  a  man?  In 
a  rush  he  remembered  the  Lefty  of  the  last 
months,  all  resource,  unselfishness,  capa 
bility,  everlasting  bright  courage;  did  he 
know  many,  any,  men  of  his  own  class  who 
might  come  out  of  such  an  ordeal  with  such 
a  record  ? 

He  thought  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  and  his 
gorgeous  last  speech,  of  how  when  he  came 
to  appear  before  high  heaven  he  would  bring 
a  thing  with  him  which  a  stain  had  not 
touched  —  ma  plume.  Lefty  would  be  quite 

[13] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

inadequate  to  make  fine  speeches  about 
himself  or  his  "feather";  all  the  same,  if 
a  German  shot  took  him  he  would  have  his 
unstained  plume  as  much  as  Cyrano.  Philip 
laughed;  he  was  building  a  castle  around 
this  son  of  the  lower  classes,  whose  very 
name  he  did  not  know.  That  idea  struck 
him. 

"Lefty,  have  you  got  a  name  for  yourself  ?  " 

"Sure,  sir."  Lefty  stuck  in  his  mouth 
his  finger  where  the  needle  pricked  it. 

"What?" 

"Lefty,  sir." 

"Oh,  well,  little  soldier-man,  if  you  don't 
want  to  tell.  I  was  thinking  it  was  queer, 
being  partners,  that  I  don't  know  your  right 
name.  That's  all." 

Lefty  grinned  up  at  him.  "Very  good, 
me  lord."  "Me  lord"  was  nonsense,  as 
both  understood,  but  the  implied  acknowl 
edgment  of  social  status  appealed  to  Philip ; 
he  accepted  it  cheerfully.  "Glad  to  tell 
you.  Right  nyme's  Philip  Morton,  sir." 

"What?" 

Lefty  glanced  up.     "Philip  Morton,"  he 

pronounced      distinctly.     "Nyme      of      my 

father's  brother,  wot  went  to  America  and 

made  his  pile.     'E  sent  t'  old  man  a  lot  o* 

[14] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

money  oncet.  They  wasn't  partiklar  friends, 
but  when  'e  made  his  pile  'e  sent  t'  old  man 
two  thousand  pounds.  And  t'  old  man 
nymed  me  arfter  'im  and  lost  t'  money  in 
side  a  year.  So  I'm  all  t'  monymint  there 
is  to  Philip  Morton  of  America,  this  side 
t'  ocean.  I  dunno  wot's  t'  other  side." 

"Didn't  you  ever  write  and  tell  him  about 
being  named  for  him?"  asked  Philip. 

"Not  me,  me  lord,"  said  Lefty.  "Wot'd 
I  do  snivelin'  arfter  a  rich  gentleman?  I 
suppose  he  were  a  gentleman  in  America; 
he  were  only  a  common  man  in  England ; 
groom  to  Lord  Carlisle  down  in  Hampshire." 

Philip  stared.  In  a  few  sentences  Lefty 
had  identified  the  American  uncle  as  his  own 
grandfather.  Which  made  them  cousins ; 
Lefty,  who  addressed  him  as  "sir"  and 
dropped  his  ^'s ;  Lefty,  the  cockney  chauf 
feur,  was  first  cousin  to  that  grande  dame, 
his  mother. 

Philip  started  in  sudden  distaste.  His 
comrade  in  the  trenches,  his  faithful  hench 
man,  was  a  great  old  chap ;  but  after  all 
it  was  instinct  in  these  people  to  serve  their 
betters.  Betters?  That  word  jarred;  how 
would  Lefty  regard  that  point  if  he  knew 
that  "me  lord"  was  his  cousin?  Philip's 
[15] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

nerves  bristled;  it  would  be  idiotic  to  tell 
him ;  the  combination  would  be  ruined ; 
Lefty  would  be  embarrassed,  and  so  would 
he ;  the  comradeship  on  a  basis  of  things  as 
they  really  were  would  be  gone,  and  neither 
would  know  the  repartee.  Much  better  to 
keep  quiet. 

"'Appen  to  know  my  gentleman  uncle, 
sir?"  inquired  Lefty.  "I  thought  t'  nyme 
seemed  to  strike  you,  like.  But,  then,  even 
in  America  you'd  'ardly  know  that  sort  — 
a  real  gentleman  like  you." 

Philip  had  the  grace  to  be  uncomfortable 
as  he  accepted  this  tribute.  Yet  he  stuck 
to  his  decision;  it  would  be  futile  to  tell 
Lefty. 

"The  name  did  strike  me;  I've  heard 
it ;  my  —  your  —  uncle  was  well  known ; 
rich  and  respected.  He's  dead  now.  He 
did  come  to  be  —  a  gentleman." 

"Lor'  bless  'is  ole  'eart,  did  he?"  Lefty 
inquired.  "Well,  I  fahncy  'e  never  got 
quite  t'  thing;  not  like  you,  me  lord.  One 
'as  to  be  born  to  the  manners,  they  say.  'E 
was  a  bit  cracked  about  bein'  a  gentleman, 
as  I've  'card  my  father  tell,  so  I'm  glad  'e 
got  'is  wish  as  it  might  be.  Odd  'ow  you'd 
'card  'is  nyme  now,  wasn't  it?  The  socks 

[16] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

is  done."  And  in  the  subject  of  his  American 
uncle  Lefty  showed  no  more  interest. 

Philip  laid  his  rifle  with  care  across  the 
protecting  sandbags  and  began  firing.  In 
between  shots  he  heard  Albert  Mullins,  the 
Wesleyan,  in  even  tones  droning  from  his 
Bible  propped  on  the  parapet:  '"Wilt  thou 
shew  wonders  to  the  dead?  shall  the  dead 
arise  and  praise  thee?  Selah.":  The  crack 
of  Albert  Mullins'  rifle;  Philip,  peering  be 
tween  two  sandbags,  saw  another  man  fall 
in  that  pet  gap  of  Mullins'. 

With  that,  along  in  an  hour  or  so  came  an 
order  to  be  ready  to  charge  the  opposing 
earthworks ;  shells  from  three  miles  back 
had  thinned  out  the  Germans  holding  them, 
so  that  it  seemed  possible  that  one  might 
advance  the  lines  by  a  hundred  yards.  In 
the  zigzag  trenches  that  connected  with  the 
front,  that  led  back  through  a  honeycombed 
stretch,  men  began  to  mass,  to  pour  up  for 
ward  closer  and  closer,  like  streams  in  spring 
time  flooding  into  a  pond.  Then  the  pond 
overflowed. 

A  word  of  command ;  they  were  scrambling 
over  the  sandbags,  rushing  the  field,  dashing 
along  with  bullets  singing  about,  around, 
close  now  to  the  other  trench.  Then  over 

[17] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

the  edge  of  it  came,  crawling,  springing, 
swarming,  the  Germans,  gray  uniforms  brist 
ling  with  shining  things  —  rifles,  bayonets. 

It  was  all  so  busy,  so  impersonal,  so  deadly 
quick  that  the  only  thought  Philip  was 
conscious  of,  outside  of  an  intense  interest 
in  the  glittering  bayonets,  was  a  comforting 
feeling  that  Lefty  was  close,  touching  him 
now  and  again;  Lefty,  whistling  through 
his  teeth  in  a  fashion  he  had  when  excited. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  heavy  bump  on  his  leg, 
on  his  forehead  at  the  same  second;  then  a 
sting  like  a  hornet's  sting.  He  found  himself 
swaying ;  things  were  a  long  way  —  off 

When  he  came  to  he  was  on  the  back  of  a 
man  who  was  trotting,  headed  to  a  clump 
of  bushes.  It  hurt  hideously  to  be  joggled ; 
he  groaned;  then  was  aware  that  the  man 
whistled  through  his  teeth  —  Lefty.  They 
were  almost  at  the  bushes  —  they  were 
there,  when  the  man  under  him  staggered ; 
they  pitched  forward  into  shelter  —  the 
two  —  and  Philip,  lifting  on  his  elbow, 
saw  Lefty  pulling  at  his  coat  where  blood 
flowed.  At  that  suddenly  he  was  frantic. 
"Lefty,  you're  wounded  —  you  saved  me 
and  they  shot  you !  Butchers,  swine ! 
Lefty,  I  can't  —  bear  it " 

[18] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

The  man  twisted  a  smile.  "Don't  worrit, 
sir.  I  don't  grudge  it.  But  if  they  wouldn't 
'a'  potted  me  that  second  we'd  'a'  got  off. 
Too  bad.  We'd  'a'  'ad  some  more  nice 
times,  me  lord." 

Philip,  shaky  with  wounds,  crawled  to 
the  big  Englishman,  put  his  arm  under  his 
head.  "Lefty,  listen  —  take  this  in:  I'm 
not  'me  lord'  or  'sir'  to  you.  I'm  your 
cousin  —  get  that,  Lefty  ?  Your  uncle  was 
my  grandfather.  I'm  Philip  Morton  Landi- 
cutt.  The  same  name  as  yours  —  cousins 
—  get  that,  old  Lefty  ?  I  was  a  cad  not 
to  tell  you  before." 

Lefty,  with  startled  eyes  on  Philip's  face, 
held  himself  back  strongly  from  the  thunder 
of  waters  that  were  sweeping  him  over  a 
drop  into  an  unknown  ocean,  waters  so 
near  that  even  now  their  mighty  beat  dulled 
his  hearing.  For  the  sake  of  his  love  to 
this  man  he  held  himself  with  his  strength 
steady  to  hear  him. 

"  Cousins  ?  You  and  me  be  —  cousins, 
sir?" 

"Lefty,    don't    call    me    'sir,"!    pleaded 

Philip.     "All    that's    rot,    class    and    such. 

It's  only  people  that  count."     Was  it  Philip 

saying  it  ?     "Anyhow  we're  —  the  same  flesh 

[19] 


and  blood ;  cousins ;  the  same  name,  Lefty, 
you  and  I.  Do  you  hear  ?  Will  you  forgive 
me?" 

"Forgive?  Wy,  I've  nothin'  to  forgive. 
The  other  ways  'round.  I'm  dyin'  'appy 

—  to  think  we  sort  of  belong  to  each  other, 
sir  —  same   bloomin'   nyme.     Good   of   you 
to    tell    me  —  most    gentlemen    would    'a' 
kep'  it.     You've  been  good  to  me  —  from 
the  first.     I  'ope  you'll  remember  me  a  bit. 
Cousins  —  that's  grand  news  for  a  man  to 

—  die  with!     God  bless "     The  strong 

will  suddenly  stopped  trying   to   hold   back 
the  thunder  of  the  waters ;  Lefty  had  slipped 
over  the  drop  and  was  out  upon  the  unknown 
ocean. 

Through  his  life  Philip  remembered  each 
moment  of  that  day,  as  it  may  be  a  martyr 
remembers  his  ordeal ;  a  memory  not  to 
be  exchanged  for  all  the  happy  days  of  a 
life.  He  lay  as  still  as  the  dead,  his  arm 
around  the  dead,  his  eyes  closed,  light 
headed  now  and  then  from  the  pain  of  his 
wounds.  The  slow  hours  ground  over  him 
as  an  ancient  glacier  may  have  ground  over 
a  hillside,  carving  it. 

At  first,  when  Lefty  died  before  his  eyes, 
he  had  been  half  mad;  he  had  caught  the 
[20] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

limp  hands;  he  had  talked  to  him;  had 
rubbed  his  hands,  and  pleaded  with  him  to 
look  at  him  only  once,  to  listen  while  he 
told  him  all  the  untold  things  which  one 
would  give  one's  life  to  say  when  it  is  just 
too  late. 

But  Lefty  did  not  listen;  for  the  first 
time  words  of  Philip's  meant  nothing  to 
this  humble  friend. 

Then  the  boy  had  broken  down,  and,  with 
his  head  on  the  quiet  heart,  he  had  cried 
as  he  had  not  cried  in  years.  After  a  while, 
the  sobs  worn  past,  he  set  himself  to  remem 
ber,  so  that  he  would  never  forget,  what 
Lefty  had  been.  He  went  over  the  three 
months  of  comradeship,  and  at  the  end  asked 
himself  which  had  been  the  finer  gentleman, 
Philip  Morton,  with  breeding  and  oppor 
tunity,  or  this  —  the  eyes  turned  to  the  still 
figure  were  blinded  so  that  he  could  not  see 
his  friend  —  this  common  man  ? 

With  his  head  against  Lefty's  shoulder 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  a  thing  which  meant 
much  to  him,  which  he  offered  as  a  thank 
offering  for  this  beautiful  short  friendship. 

"Lefty,"  whispered  Philip  into  the  stained 
uniform-  "Lefty,  you  get  this?  I  promise 
on  my  honor  for  your  sake  all  my  life  to 


THE   THREE  THINGS 

judge  people  as  people,  to  throw  class 
prejudice  away  for  junk.  Lefty,  you've 
humbled  me  to  the  dust,  you  who  put  me 
on  a  pedestal.  I'm  a  pitiful  object  beside 

you A  sob  cut  through,  and  with  it 

words  came  to  Philip's  mind:  "Greater 
love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man 
lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends!" 

"'Greater  love,'"  sobbed  Philip  into  the 
brown  sleeve,  his  arm  across  the  broad 
body,  "  *  Greater  love '  —  *  no  man '  —  that's 
straight,  old  Lefty.  I  won't  forget  that. 
I'll  —  I'll  try  to  make  up  to  some  other 
chaps  who  haven't  a  chance.  That's  all  I 
can  do.  And  I'll  do  it." 

In  the  furnace  of  those  hours  the  steel  of 
a  character  was  forged.  It  was  good  stuff 
tried  by  fire  that  day;  the  boy  would  not 
forget. 

The  tide  of  battle  rolled  past;  at  first 
shrapnel  scattering,  the  long,  high  whistle 
and  the  explosions  of  bursting  shells,  a 
hideously  gay  sputter  of  machine  guns,  and 
cracking  of  many  rifles.  Then  by  degrees 
only  artillery  booming  in  the  distance;  only 
a  shell  groaning  past  at  intervals. 

Philip  did  not  care.  His  arm  around  Lefty, 
he  lay  quiet,  and  death  would  have  found 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

him  unresentful.  But  death  did  not  come; 
instead,  Red  Cross  nurses  came  at  twilight 
and  discovered  the  two  clasped  under  the 
sheltering  bushes  and  lifted  them  tenderly, 
Philip  moaning,  half -conscious,  as  they  parted 
them. 

For  some  weeks,  that  was  all.  Then  a 
new  Philip,  gaunter,  grimmer,  was  ready  to 
go  back  to  the  front;  his  wounds  had  been 
light. 

******* 

Poor  little  Dixmude,  worried  by  harrying 
armies,  caught  in  the  claws  now  of  the 
Allies,  now  of  the  Germans,  torn  by  shot 
and  shell  whichever  way,  lay  silent  for  a 
moment  in  the  sunlight  of  the  autumn  day. 
Heaps  of  brick  and  mortar  blocked  what 
had  been  trim  streets ;  sullen  smoke  curled 
where  a  housewife  had  kept  her  manage; 
the  sofa  of  the  best  room,  which  the  house 
wife  had  saved  her  earnings  to  pay  for  — 
the  milk  of  the  cow,  the  vegetables  out  of 
the  garden  —  which  she  had  saved  for  five 
years;  the  sofa  sat  pertly,  new  and  un- 
scarred,  in  a  room  without  a  ceiling,  in  the 
reek  of  the  futile  smoke. 

The  thrifty,  smiling  housewife  and  her 
man  —  who  knows  where  they  were  ?  Wan- 
[23] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

dering,  starving,  if  not  shot  down  in  wanton 
ness. 

With  his  regiment  Philip  marched  into 
Dixmude;  the  Allies  held  it  this  morning. 
He  marked  these  things,  marching;  one 
saw  enough  without  turning  the  head  un 
duly.  Then,  as  the  column  swung  around 
the  corner,  he  caught,  down  the  ruined 
street,  a  sudden  antiphonal  glitter  and 
shadow  of  sunlight  on  steel ;  a  column  of 
Uhlans  had  almost  surprised  them. 

With  that,  orders  rang;  a  machine  gun 
was  set  up ;  men  scattered  into  houses  to 
fight  from  cover;  in  five  minutes  a  savage, 
close  battle  was  raging,  and  Philip,  firing 
from  a  window,  saw  that  the  English  force 
slowly  fell  back.  The  Germans  were  thicker, 
easier  marks  in  front  of  his  ambushed  win 
dow;  he  kept  on  firing;  till  suddenly  he 
was  aware  that  he  was  alone  in  a  town  held 
by  the  enemy,  and  it  might  even  now  be 
too  late  to  escape  capture.  He  sprang  back 
into  the  room,  into  the  arms  of  a  motherly 
person  in  full,  short  skirts,  of  an  anguished 
face. 

"Hurry  —  hurry,  dear  lad!"  she  adjured 
him  in  French.  "One  will  search  the  house; 
one  will  kill  us  as  well  if  you  are  found.  This 
[24] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

way  —  void! "  He  was  at  a  back  stairway. 
"Two  flights,"  whispered  the  old  Belgian. 
"A  trap  door.  One  pushes  the  red  plank 
—  voild  !  Hurry,  then  ! " 

Springing  up,  he  found  the  red  plank ;  he 
was  through  the  trap  door  and  in  a  manner 
of  hidden  room  in  the  loft.  Safe  enough, 
he  considered,  if  one  kept  still,  and  if  one 
might  ever  get  out  again.  He  stole  to  the 
only  window.  The  window  looked  out  on 
wide  fields,  and  pouring  into  the  fields  were 
company  after  company  of  never-ending 
gray  uniforms,  infantry  and  cavalry. 

Philip  sprang  backward,  realizing  that  out 
of  all  those  one  enemy  might  glance  at  the 
attic  window.  It  was  dark  in  the  corners 
of  the  little  attic ;  he  stared  in  safety  at 
the  shifting  field  of  soldiery.  When  sud 
denly  his  pulse  jumped.  From  the  shadows 
on  the  floor  something  clung  to  his  feet. 
He  turned  his  eyes  down  with  a  dread  of 
what  he  might  see.  What  he  saw  was  the 
back  of  a  golden  head  with  two  heavy  braids 
of  bright  hair. 

The  child's  face  was  hidden  against  his 

muddy   shoes.     He   bent   and   loosened   the 

hands  and  lifted  her  —  a  girl  of  sixteen  or 

seventeen,  tall,  slim  as  a  young  tree.     She 

[25] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

stood  staring  at  him  from  luminous  dark 
eyes  incongruous  with  the  bright  hair. 

'The  two  stared;   the  girl's  eyes  wandered 
to  the  window,  to  that  field  full  of  color  and 
motion.     She  flashed  a  gesture,   whispered 
something. 
,  "  What?  "Philip  asked. 

"A  pistol  —  have  you  a  pistol?"  She 
moistened  her  lips,  gasping. 

"But,  yes."  They  were  talking  in  French. 
Another  gesture. 

"Will  you  please  shoot  me  before " 

The  frightened  eyes  wandered  again  —  full 
of  horror  —  to  that  flooding  river  of  German 
soldiers. 

Philip's  young  mouth  set;  his  hand  went 
to  his  revolver.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I'll  shoot 

you." 

It  was  a  strange,  quiet,  long  day ;  a  day 
which  seemed  to  the  boy  to  be  something 
read  about  in  a  book,  not  possibly  happen 
ing  in  reality  to  an  American  lad  out  of  a 
happy  and  commonplace  background  of 
school  and  college  and  home. 

The  two  in  the  attic  room  dared  not  stir 
for  fear  that  a  sound  in  the  deserted  house 
might  be  heard  by  prowling  Germans  search 
ing  all  day  for  the  men  who  had  fought  them 
[26] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

from  these  village  houses.  Several  times 
parties  of  soldiers  entered  and  went  about 
noisily  through  the  rooms  below,  some 
businesslike  and  well-behaved,  some  slam 
ming  doors,  firing  into  walls,  crashing  the 
poor  furniture.  All  alike  meant  ruin  to 
the  two  breathless  in  the  hidden  room. 

When  the  house  seemed  empty  they  talked 
a  little  in  whispers,  listening  between  sen 
tences.  The  girl  told  him  a  story.  Her 
father  was  in  the  Belgian  Army ;  she  had 
signaled  day  after  day  to  his  regiment  from 
the  windmill  on  her  father's  land;  she  had 
told  by  signs  news  of  the  German  move 
ments.  One  day  she  had  seen  the  patrol 
come  galloping,  and  had  barely  escaped, 
crawling  through  ditches;  had  been  passed 
from  house  to  house  by  neighbors  who  risked 
life  to  protect  her ;  had  seen  the  home  where 
she  had  been  born  burned  to  the  ground. 

She  bent  her  bright  head  in  her  hands. 
"My  mother,"  she  whispered;  "the  two 
little  brothers  —  they  were  not  wicked.  The 
mother  was  lame;  they  knew  she  could  not 
have  climbed  to  signal,  and  the  boys  were 
too  small.  I  saw  them  killed." 

The  tragic  eyes  stared.  "There  is  yet 
the  father."  The  luminous  look  flashed  to 
[27] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

Philip.  "He  is  wonderful,  the  father  — 
not  like  others.  He  studies ;  he  knows 
everything;  he  makes  me  study  also,  and 
think,  and  live  for  the  things  that  count. 
He  says  that.  So  —  I  must  live  —  for 
him.  While  he  is  alive  there  is  —  some 
thing  left." 

The  slim  figure  straightened;  Philip  no 
ticed  that  the  child  was  tall.  "I  am  not  a 
coward,"  she  stated.  "I  also  can  die  for 
Belgium.  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  shot. 
I  knew  that  might  be  when  I  signaled. 
But"  —  the  dark  glance  wandered  out  of 
the  window  to  the  gray,  glittering  ranks 
overflowing  the  fields  —  "you'll  shoot  me 
—  first?"  she  whispered.  And  again  Philip 
promised. 

The  day  wore  on.  And  toward  evening 
shells  began  to  whistle  overhead;  to  ex 
plode  now  and  then  in  the  poor  little  har 
ried  town  of  Dixmude.  There  was  the 
rumble,  the  crashing  and  tearing,  of  falling 
walls;  once  the  very  dust  of  masonry  came 
in  a  cloud  through  the  one  window  of  the 
hidden  room  in  the  loft,  where  Philip  and 
the  tall,  fair-haired  Belgian  girl  had  been  in 
hiding  since  morning,  and  almost  choked 
them.  It  was  not  so  much  better  to  be  killed 
[28] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

i 

by  one's  friends  than  by  one's  enemies, 
Philip  reflected;  the  English  were  shelling 
the  town.  Then,  far  down  the  streets,  one 
heard  the  noise  of  an  engagement,  the  levity 
of  the  machine  guns,  rifle  shots,  shouts  of 
men,  and  once,  dignified  to  a  stern  courage, 
the  air  of  "A  Long,  Long  Way  to  Tipperary," 
in  a  menacing  chant  as  they  marched  on 
the  German  column.  » 

A  roar  of  sharp  battle,  and  "Tipperary" 
went  under.  But  not  the  English  advance ; 
the  two,  listening  dry-lipped,  came  to  know 
that  the  war-torn  village  had  changed  mas 
ters  again. 

They  lifted  the  trap  door  and  hurried  down 
the  steep  stairs.  The  old  peasant  woman  of 
the  full  skirts  lay  dead  at  the  foot  of  the 
lower  flight.  Philip  lifted  her  and  laid  her 
on  her  own  bed,  and  bent  and  kissed  her 
mouth.  "For  Meggy,"  he  whispered.  Then 
he  caught  the  girl's  hand  and  they  stood  in 
the  door  of  the  house  as  the  first  English 
lines  came  by. 

The  girl  was  safe  in  the  hands  of  the  Red 
Gross  before  he  left  her  that  night,  and,  as 
he  told  her  good-by,  a  thought  struck  him. 
He  scribbled  hastily  in  a  notebook  and  tore 
out  a  sheet : 

[29] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"You  might  —  want  to  go  to  America. 
This  is  a  word  to  my  mother.  She  would 
look  after  you  if  you  gave  her  this." 

The  child  smiled  at  him  for  the  first  time, 
a  radiant,  adoring  smile. 

"One  has  the  father,"  she  said  proudly. 
And  then:  "M'sieur  is  good."  She  took 
the  paper;  the  bright  head  bent  quickly, 
and  she  kissed  his  hand. 

As  he  swung  away,  Philip  rubbed  the  back 
of  his  hand,  where  her  lips  had  touched, 
against  his  trousers.  Nasty  feeling,  to  have 
your  hand  kissed.  Yet  there  was  a  warmth 
about  his  heart  which  had  not  been  there 
since  the  day  Lefty  was  killed,  and  suddenly 
he  was  singing. 

****** 

The  Germans  held  the  Yser;  the  regi 
ment  was  ordered  to  cross.  This  was  three 
days  after  the  episode  in  Dixmude;  Philip 
had  forgotten  about  Dixmude,  about  the 
girl.  One  has  small  time  to  remember,  sol 
diering.  One  obeys  orders,  eats,  fights; 
between  times  one  drops  dead.  Living  is 
the  utmost  the  human  machine  can  accom 
plish  in  that  life  of  superhuman  strain.  The 
regiment  marched  toward  the  canal,  and 
Philip  was  aware  only  that  there  was  a 
[30] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

thing  to  do  and  that  he  was  there  to  do  it ; 
alive  only  to  the  fact  that  at  any  moment 
he  must  be  ready  to  fight. 

And  with  that  the  air  was  full  of  the  sing 
ing  sound  which  he  had  come  to  know  well, 
and  out  of  the  trenches,  across  the  narrow 
stream,  poured  a  torrent  of  never-ending 
gray  uniforms ;  one  was  attacking  with  the 
bayonet.  On  the  banks,  in  the  water,  one 
attacked,  one  defended,  one  fought,  trampled, 
pushed,  plunged  through  as  if  a  human  life 
were  a  clot  of  mud  to  be  used  only  for  reach 
ing  that  bank  over  there^  a  few  yards  away, 
a  few  hundred  lives  away. 

They  were  bayoneted,  thrown  down, 
trampled  into  a  bridge,  the  boys  with 
mothers  at  home,  men  with  wives,  trampled 
into  a  bridge  for  the  crossing  of  a  mad  mul 
titude  behind. 

Philip,  a  berserk  in  his  young  fury  — 
roaring,  clean  mad  —  reached  the  bank  over 
that  horrible  bridge;  reached  it  and  fought 
on  —  his  regiment  at  his  side  —  beyond, 
priceless  yards  beyond;  and  fell.  Fell  and 
felt  no  pain;  only,  struggle  as  he  might,  he 
could  not  rise;  something  did  not  connect; 
the  muscles  that  had  been  steel  springs,  if 
steel  there  might  be  vividly  aware  of  power, 
[31] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

these  same  muscles  gave  no  answer  to  his 
frantic  commands. 

He  lay,  and  the  fight  streamed.  The 
British  pushed  on,  on.  Rifle  shots  filled 
the  air;  artillery  boomed  far  off;  shells 
burst  close ;  men  whirled,  fell  dead.  White, 
innocent  puffs  of  shrapnel  rose  in  the  dis 
tance;  one  heard  the  curious  whistling  as  it 
came  near ;  men  fell ;  the  ground  was  heaps 
of  fallen  men.  He  saw  them,  heard  them, 
and  slowly  with  his  ebbing  blood,  the  de 
lirium  of  battle  ebbed,  and  he  knew  these 
were  men,  hurt. 

Then  a  figure  stepped  into  the  scene  which 
might  have  come  from  a  medieval  romance 
—  hawk-nosed,  dusky,  sorrowful-eyed, 
dressed  in  a  long  black  cassock,  a  black 
skullcap  on  the  white  long  hair.  The  Jew 
worked  his  way  among  the  fallen  figures, 
peering  into  faces,  looking  for  men  of  his 
race  to  help.  "Water!"  gasped  a  wounded 
Irishman,  and  the  Rabbi  drew  out  a  flask 
and  lifted  the  man's  head  as  he  drank. 
The  man  saw  the  black  dress.  His  fast- 
dimming  eyes  made  no  fine  distinctions. 

"Father,"  he  whispered  —  "crucifix." 

Philip  saw  the  Rabbi  start;  from  some 
where  a  hand  held  out  something;  the 
[32] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

long  fingers  caught  it,  and  with  Terence 
O'Shaughnessey's  head  heavy  against  his 
breast  he  held  high  the  sign  of  a  faith  not 
his,  before  dying  eyes.  And  as  he  held  it 
yet  another  shell  burst  above  the  battle 
field,  and  the  Rabbi  lay  dead,  the  dead  Irish 
man  in  his  arms  and  the  cross  of  Christ 
gripped  in  his  hand.  So  all  faiths  are  the 
same  in  death,  and  the  greatest  of  them  all 
is  love. 

Then  to  the  American  boy  the  world 
darkened  and  went  under,  and  for  many 
hours  he  knew  nothing,  and  a  day  passed 
and  a  night  before  the  tenacious  life  in  him 
came  on  top  and  his  eyes  opened.  Clouds 
swept  across  a  low  sky.  He  opened  his  eyes 
on  them,  facing  up,  lying  across  an  uneven 
surface;  opened  them  wide  on  angry  clouds 
reeling  over  the  sky. 

He  was  conscious  that  he  was  conscious; 
it  was  as  if  never  in  his  life  had  he  been 
conscious  before ;  it  was  as  if  all  his  years 
had  been  played  on  a  top  layer  of  existence, 
and  now  his  personality  had  dived  into  a 
reality,  a  terror,  a  glory  of  living  —  and  he 
knew  it.  The  Philip  of  his  young  years,  his 
only  self  so  far,  seemed  removed  from  him; 
he  was  himself,  but  himself  was  something 
[33] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

he  had  not  known.  The  universe  was  spin 
ning,  yet  in  the  center  he  was  firm  in  that 
strange,  profound,  ecstatic  agony  of  himself. 

With  that  he  heard  a  voice  speaking 
through  his  lips  —  his  voice  ?  Yes,  and  yet 
a  thing  beyond  himself  was  saying  the  words. 
These  were  words  he  had  heard  time  on  time 
in  long-ago  years  when  he  went  to  church,  a 
little  lad,  and  held  his  mother's  hand,  his 
head  against  his  mother's  shoulder.  The 
voice  spoke.  It  was  loud  and  slow  and  clear, 
this  voice  that  spoke  from  his  lips;  the 
words  came  in  a  manner  of  chant : 

"Out  of  the  depths  have  I  called  unto  Thee, 
O  Lord,"  the  voice  spoke.  "O  Lord,  hear 
my  voice."  And  again  that  strange  loud 
chant  of  the  age-old  words:  "Out  of  the 
depths  —  O  Lord,  hear  my  voice." 

The  unevenness  under  him  heaved  — 
groaned.  Philip's  staring  eyes  coming  from 
the  sky  gazed  about.  There  were  men 
everywhere;  piled  up,  hundreds  of  men. 
He  was  lying  on  men  heaped  on  each  other. 
There  were  limp  forms  —  sprawled,  twisted, 
doubled  up;  there  were  writhing,  hiccough 
ing,  moaning  figures;  there  were  horrible 
bleeding  things  too  awful  for  human  eyes; 
Philip  stared  at  them  all  calmly.  There 
[34] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

was  no  emotion  in  him;  the  shock  of  his 
wound  had  knocked  out  all  that.  And  again 
came  from  his  lips  that  unearthly,  detached 
intoning : 

"Out  of  the  depths  have  I  called  unto 
Thee,  O  Lord— " 

"Damn  —  damnation!  A  thousand  dam 
nations  on  your  sniveling,  lying  preaching ! " 
screamed  a  man,  struggling  halfway  from 
under  two  dead  men.  "There  isn't  any 
God.  Hell  —  I  know  it !  There's  hell,  and 
this1  is  it.  If  I  could  get  back  and  kill  — 
kill  — "  the  voice  broke  into  a  cough.  But 
it  went  on  again :  "If  there  was  a  God  could 
there  be  —  this  ?  There's  only  hell,  and  I'd 
like  to  send  more  Germans  into  it  to  suffer 
as  I'm  suffering  ! " 

"Out  of  the  depths,"  Philip's  chant 
began  again,  calm,  unmoved;  and  the  man 
yelled  like  a  wild  thing  across  the  words. 
But  somewhere  in  the  dreadful  assembly, 
yards  away,  another  voice  had  caught, 
repeated  them : 

"Out  of  the  depths  have  I  called  unto 
Thee,  O  Lord,"  the  weaker,  strained  tones 
were  answering,  and  yet  another,  gasping, 
and  still  another  came  into  the  solemn  choir : 
"O  Lord,  hear  my  voice." 
[35] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

Then  from  somewhere  through  the  groans 
rose  sonorously  a  trained  chant,  the  chant 
of  a  singer  in  a  cathedral : 

"De  profundis  clamavi  ad  te,  Domine — " 
and  behold  from  all  about  men's  voices 
followed  him,  strained,  broken,  calling  from 
the  last  ditch  upon  their  God. 

Suddenly  Philip's  stunned  nerves  burst 
into  horrible  life ;  he  was  suffering  as  he  had 
never  thought  of  suffering;  he  was  awake, 
back  in  his  normal  consciousness,  yet  the 
words  which  he  had  been  saying  held  him 
still;  and  with  that  he  was  praying.  The 
men  about  him  meant  nothing;  this  was 
prayer  at  its  most  real.  He  needed  desper 
ately  what  he  asked  for,  and  that  he  had  not 
believed  in  God  before  was  not  more  to  him 
than  a  straw  in  the  wind.  He  knew  now; 
from  that  bottomless  consciousness  which 
had  flowed  into  him,  out  of  the  depths  he 
knew. 

"O  God!"  he  prayed  —  and  though  he 
did  not  know  it,  prayed  aloud  —  "O  God, 
save  me.  Give  me  back  my  life.  So  that 
I  can  use  it  for  Your  work.  I  will.  Help 
me.  Save  me.  God  help  us  all." 

And  with  that  there  was  a  mad,  unthink 
able  sound  —  the  man  who  had  screamed 
[36] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

curses ;  he  was  sobbing  so  terribly  that  even 
in  that  awful  spot  Philip's  heart  stood  still. 

"There  is  a  God,"  he  broke  out,  shaking, 
writhing,  sobbing  horribly.  "I  have  to  give 
in.  Ask  him  to  —  to  help  —  me.  I  be 
lieve —  O  God!"  The  arms  flung  up;  he 
was  dead.  And  with  that  Philip's  shivering 
consciousness  lapsed  again. 

When  he  came  to  himself  the  next  time  he 
lay  comfortably  in  sheets.  He  turned  his 
head ;  all  about  were  narrow  white  beds ;  a 
hospital.  It  was  peace;  peace  and  com 
fort  and  cleanliness ;  he  was  too  weak  to  want 
more;  contentment  held  him.  Drowsily  he 
saw  a  nurse  with  a  red  cross  on  her  cap  mov 
ing  toward  him ;  he  shut  his  eyes  for  fear 
she  might  speak  to  him  ;  the  effort  of  a  word, 
of  a  smile,  was  to  be  avoided. 

So  he  lay  for  an  hour,  three  hours,  feigning 
unconsciousness  from  sheer  dread  of  taking 
on  his  weak  shoulders  the  least  fingerweight 
of  the  burden  of  living.  One  had  crowded  a 
good  bit  of  living  into  those  days  before  the 
fight  on  the  Yser ;  there  was  a  margin  to  his 
credit;  one  had  no  desire  for  activity  yet 
awhile.  But  inevitably  life  began  to  pulse 
back.  A  vague  interest  dawned  in  the  other 
narrow  beds,  in  what  the  nurses  and  the 
[37] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

doctors  were  doing  to  the  men  in  them,  in 
the  men. 

Tentatively  he  moved  his  hands ;  they  were 
right ;  eyes  unhurt  too  —  that  was  a  miracle 
of  joy ;  he  tried  to  turn  on  his  side  and  agony 
caught  every  nerve  in  his  body.  "It's  not 
done,"  Philip  whispered,  trembling,  smiling 
oddly;  one  had  found  the  weak  spot;  he 
lay  still  and  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  bed 
next.  A  boy  was  there  of  perhaps  seventeen 
years,  fair-haired  and  fresh-faced;  looking, 
amid  the  whiteness,  like  a  child.  "What  a 
shame!"  Philip  thought  from  the  height  of 
his  twenty- three  years. 

The  boy's  eyes  were  closed,  and  with  that 
he  began  to  talk  in  his  sleep  —  to  talk  Ger 
man.  A  spasm  of  disgust  caught  the  Ameri 
can;  he  shook  with  the  repulsion  which  the 
sound  of  the  language  stirred  in  him.  "The 
unspeakable  German  ! "  he  whispered.  The 
sleeping  boy  murmured  on.  The  ward  was 
quiet;  only  a  nurse's  dress  rustled  as  she 
moved,  yards  away;  Philip,  who  had  a 
knowledge  of  German,  could  not  help  listen 
ing  to  the  boy. 

"The  mother,"  he  said,  "she  should  not 
come  so  on  a  battlefield.  It  is  no  place  for 
women.  Achl  I'm  a  thickhead;  it  is  not  a 
[38] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

battlefield ;  see  —  the  orchard ;  the  little 
sister  coming  home.  Gretel !  Her  braid  is 
caught  in  the  rose  bush  —  wait,  child. 
Careless  Mddchen,  to  tear  the  good,  yellow 
hair.  Down,  Nagler !  How  the  foolish  dog 
is  glad  to  see  thee  back  from  school !  —  Ach  I " 

The  boy  stirred,  woke,  set  his  teeth  as  he 
twisted  with  the  pain  that  had  wakened  him ; 
smiled  through  the  pain  into  Philip's  eyes. 

But  not  yet  could  the  American  smile 
back  at  one  of  the  accursed.  He  turned  his 
head  away.  He  heard  a  sigh  and  the  catch 
of  a  moan;  the  boy's  wound  had  hurt  him. 
Philip  was  not  cold-blooded ;  the  cry  pluckily 
smothered,  the  picture  of  the  blond  head 
among  the  pillows,  of  youth  and  suffering 
and  courage,  hurt  him  also,  yet  he  turned 
without  a  sign  of  sympathy. 

In  the  bed  on  the  other  side  lay  a  man  of 
fifty-five  or  so,  grizzled,  haggard.  Dark 
eyes  under  heavy  brows  gleamed  at  the 
ceiling.  Philip,  looking,  saw  that  the  man's 
face  was  concentrated  in  endurance.  The 
muscles  were  rigid ;  it  seemed  that  with 
one  ounce  more  of  pain  the  will  must  break 
and  he  would  scream.  But  the  will  held,  and 
slowly  the  muscles  relaxed;  the  spasm  has 
passed.  A  nurse  came. 
[39] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"Ah,"  she  said  reproachfully,  "you  should 
have  called  me,  Baron !  I  could  have  given 
you  a  hypodermic.  Why  didn't  you  send?" 

The  man  was  shaking  with  what  he  had 
been  through.  "Pardon,  nurse,"  he  said. 
"You  were  —  busy." 

And  Philip  tossed  up  a  hand  in  distaste  — 
the  man  spoke  English  perfectly,  but  his 
accent  was  German.  He  shut  his  eyes  then 
and  looked  to  neither  right  nor  left ;  he,  the 
German-hater,  who  had  come  three  thousand 
miles  to  help  punish  the  "race  of  canaille," 
lay  between  two  Germans. 

The  quiet  hours  went  on.  Pain,  peace, 
hope,  endurance,  despair ;  these  were  about 
him,  were  with  him  in  his  narrow  white  bed. 
His  own  suffering,  as  long  as  he  lay  still,  was 
not  severe,  but  at  any  movement  of  his  body 
the  wound  iirtfa^hip  was  fire  and  knives. 

^^^Jifc^ 

Then  behold  therewas  a  letter,  an  event  of 
excitement  and  joy,  a  letter  from  his  mother. 
The  nurse  lifted  his  head  on  two  pillows,  and 
as  he  read  his  face  brightened,  softened  with 
the  changing  storm  of  interest;  he  did  not 
know  that  the  man  on  his  right  was  watching.  4 
It  was  a  long  letter ;  as  he  finished  the  first 
sheet  he  tucked  it  under  the  pillow,  and  an 
edge  caught  and  he  reached  with  his  left  hand 
[40] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

to  free  it,  and  the  two  other  sheets  fell  and 
blew  close  to  the  bed  of  the  German  officer. 

Philip  almost  cried.  There  was  no  nurse 
near ;  could  he  bear  it  to  wait  till  some  one 
came?  Might  not  the  precious  papers  even 
blow  away  and  get  lost  ?  It  was  bitter  to  lie 
there  and  see  that  scrap  of  home  in  reach, 
yet  beyond  his  power  to  reach. 

Suddenly  the  grizzled,  massive  head  in  the 
next  bed  lifted  :  a  bony  arm  went  overboard 
and  caught  the  papers  and  held  them  out ;  the 
glance  of  the  two  met :  Philip's  young,  unfor 
giving  glance  and  the  composed,  older  look. 

"It  would  be  too  bad  to  lose  your  mother's 
letter  under  these  circumstances,"  spoke  the 
officer  in  easy  English. 

Philip's  eyes  widened.  "Thank  you  very 
much,"  he  said  coldly. 

He  read  on  absorbed ;  as  the  end  came  he 
was  aware  of  a  stir ;  there  were  nurses  bend 
ing  over  the  Prussian  officer.  "You  must 
not  ever  do  it  again,"  one  was  saying.  "I 
saw  you  reach  and  bend.  It  might  have 
killed  you.  It  was  madness." 

The  other  nurse  injected  something  into 
the  knotted  arm.  Philip  saw  that  the  man 
was  in  the  grip  of  another  attack  of  frightful 
pain. 

[411 


THE  THREE   THINGS 

"It  was  madness,"  the  first  nurse  repeated. 

The  officer  looked  up ;  his  face  was  drawn ; 
black  lines  were  under  his  eyes;  the  nurse 
wiped  away  sweat.  He  looked  up  at  her 
haggardly,  whimsically.  "The  boy  wanted 
—  his  mother's  letter,"  he  whispered. 

Philip,  the  letter  clasped  under  the  bed 
clothes,  shut  his  eyes  and  thought ;  a  long 
time  he  thought.  First  of  his  mother;  of 
that  sunny  afternoon  in  the  big  library  at 
home,  with  the  pink  phloxes  outside  and  the 
bee  buzzing  in  at  the  open  window.  Of  the 
three  things  which  he  had  specified  on  which 
they  could  never  be  agreed  —  class  pride, 
religion,  race  prejudice.  Of  class  pride;  he 
thought  of  that  and  then  of  Lefty;  he  had 
buried  that  in  Lefty's  unknown  grave;  that 
was  wiped  out. 

Then  he  thought  about  his  unbelief;  he 
considered  the  hour  of  consciousness  on  the 
field  by  the  Yser  canal;  that  voice,  his  and 
not  his,  which  had  spoken  adherence  to  a 
belief ;  that  strange  choir  of  the  dying  which 
had  chanted  faith  and  hope  out  of  the  depths ; 
his  own  prayer  and  his  promise  if  he  were 
saved  to  live  his  life  for  the  Lord's  work. 

He  considered  how  something  had  hap 
pened  there  which  transcended  his  cocksure 
[42] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

atheism  of  a  college  student;  he  had  got  to 
the  profounder  places  of  life  and  found  there 
—  God.  Yes,  unbelief  was  wiped  out  too. 
That  was  the  second  thing  on  which  he  and 
his  mother  had  differed,  as  he  thought, 
irretrievably.  Those  two  were  wiped  off  the 
slate. 

Now  he  was  facing  the  third.  Christianity 
had  gentleness  for  everything  alive.  His 
mother  could  believe  in  such  a  thing  as  a 
good  German.  And  he?  His  heart,  for  all 
of  his  young,  set  mouth,  was  soft  to  the  man 
who  had  risked  death  gallantly  to  do  a  kind 
deed  for  an  alien  enemy.  Like  a  black 
smith's  hammer  on  red  iron  that  thought 
wrought  at  his  softened  soul  and  bent  it 
painfully  into  a  shape  not  expected. 

It  came  to  him  that  this  was  the  first  test 
of  the  promise  made  on  the  battlefield;  the 
first  fight  to  carry  under  his  flag  of  faith. 
"Forgive  your  enemies"  -that  was  the 
command.  One  lives  on  deep  levels,  one 
takes  sharp  turns  in  a  time  like  war ;  Philip, 
in  a  shock  of  clear  vision,  saw  that  the  noblesse 
oblige  of  his  old  code  as  much  as  loyalty  to 
his  vow  asked  one  thing  of  him  and  asked 
it  now.  He  turned  his  head,  shot  his  hand 
toward  the  Prussian  officer. 

(481 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"I  want  to  thank  you,  and  to  tell  you  how 
sorry  I  am,"  he  threw  at  him.  "It  was  won 
derful  of  you  to  make  yourself  that  suffering. 
I'd  gladly  have  taken  the  suffering."  Was 
this  Philip  talking  to  a  German? 

The  officer  shifted  his  look  slowly  till  it 
rested  on  Philip's  face.  "The  attack  was  of 
little  importance,"  he  said  quietly.  "One 
gets  used-  — "  he  stopped.  "You  wanted 
the  letter." 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  from  my 
mother?"  Philip  demanded  impetuously. 

The  officer  smiled.  "I  have  boys  of  my 
own,"  he  said  simply. 

"It  was  wonderful  of  you,"  Philip  repeated, 
a  bit  unevenly;  and  then:  "We  are  — 
enemies,  of  course,  but"  —  smiling,  em 
barrassed  —  "it's  'Love  your  enemies,'  don't 
you  know ;  and  —  that  was  an  awfully  white 
thing  you  did.  Would  you  —  could  you 
without  hurting  yourself  —  shake  hands  with 
me,  sir,  and  —  and  be  friends  ?" 

The  grizzled  head  turned  farther  and  the 
deep  eyes  of  a  scholar  stared  into  Philip's. 
"You  have  conquered  two  enemies,  my  lad, 
in  these  five  minutes,"  the  German  spoke; 
"I  saw  your  look  when  I  gave  you  the  letter; 
it  was  not  friendly.  You  have  conquered 
[44] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

yourself.  And  I  am "  -  he  laughed  a  little 
—  "ah,  youth  and  charm  and  generous 
blood !  I  also  am  the  captive  of  your  bow 
and  spear."  The  strong  fingers  went  out  and 
the  clasp  that  held  the  hands  together  was  not 
for  time,  perhaps,  but  for  a  peaceful  eternity. 
Philip  wakened  that  midnight  to  the  sound 
of  a  low  rhythm ;  he  turned  his  head  toward 
his  new  friend ;  the  officer  lay  as  usual  with 
the  cavernous,  shining  eyes  of  him  gazing 
upward  as  if  at  vistas  seen  through  the  white 
washed  hospital  ceiling;  he  was  repeating 
words  in  English,  over  and  over,  in  a  burring 
soft  whisper;  it  was  as  if  an  organ  far  off 
were  played  in  a  wood.  The  boy  listened. 
And  all  through  life  I  see  a  cross  — 

the  Prussian  officer  repeated  - 

Where  sons  of  God  yield  up  their  breath ; 
There  is  no  gain  except  by  loss ; 

There  is  no  life  except  by  death ; 
There  is  no  vision  but  by  faith ; 

Nor  glory  but  by  bearing  shame ; 

Nor  justice  but  by  taking  blame. 

Philip  went  to  sleep  to  the  low  sound  of 
that  soldier's  creed  in  the  deep,  brave,  gentle 
voice.     And  as  his  eyes  opened  in  the  morn 
ing  they  met  the  blue  gaze  of  the  German  lad 
[45] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

watching  him  wistfully.  Philip  smiled.  The 
boy's  face  shone. 

"I  hope  your  wound  is  not  very  bad,"  said 
Philip. 

"Ach,  no  —  a  nothing,"  the  boy  answered. 
"A  foot  only." 

"Will  you  —  will  you  rejoin  your  com 
mand?" 

"No,"  the  lad  said.  "One  will  not  walk 
decently  again." 

"You'll  be  sent  home?" 

"Ach,  yes." 

Philip  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  "I'm 
glad,"  he  said. 

The  childlike  eyes  inquired,  understood. 
Then :  "It  is  a  shame  for  the  Fatherland  to 
lose  a  soldier  when  I  am  unhurt  otherwise. 
But " 

"But  what?"  Philip  asked  curiously. 

Now  the  innocent  blue  eyes  asked  questions 
of  Philip's  eyes,  then  suddenly  trusted  the 
older  boy.  "I  do  not  know  if  it  is  wrong," 
the  German  lad  confided,  "but  the  terrible 
noise  and  dirt  and  blood  to  me  seem  ugly. 
Also  not  useful.  I  hate  it.  It  is  heavenly  to 
think  that  I  may  honorably  go  back  to  the 
mother  and  the  farm  and  the  little  sister. 
One  foot  —  it  is  a  small  price.  And  perhaps 

[46] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

I  may  some  day  be  the  Herr  Oberschaffner, 
or  the  Herr  Stadt-Musik  Direktor  —  for  I 
know  a  little  my  music  —  because  of  being 
wounded  for  the  Fatherland.  I  am  lucky." 
He  wriggled  about  in  the  bed.  "But  even 
so  the  foot  troubles.  It  seems  not  to  under 
stand  that  it  is  lucky."  Beads  of  perspira 
tion  stood  on  the  smooth  forehead,  but  the  lad 
grinned.  This  little  soldier  was  no  coward. 

"The  pain  will  pass,"  said  Philip,  and  he 
put  out  a  hand  —  a  hand  to  a  German  fight 
ing  man. 

The  boy  caught  the  hand,  crushed  it  in  his 
grip  of  a  peasant.  " Mein  Herr  is  very  good." 
He  had  not  missed  the  caste  of  the  American. 

A  throb  of  pain,  a  memory,  pulled  at 
Philip's  soul  —  Lefty.  "Do  not  bother 
about  'mein  Herr,'  lad,"  he  spoke  quietly. 
"We're  all  brothers  here." 

"Danke,  Bruder"  smiled  the  little  fellow, 
and  from  that  on  Philip  was  called  "brother" 
quite  simply  by  a  German  common  soldier. 

So  he  lay  in  his  white  bed,  between  his  two 
friends,  in  the  midst  of  tragedy  and  suffering 
and  personal  pain  a  plenty,  and  was  happy. 
But  one  is  not  kept  in  a  field  hospital  long. 
With  his  friends  yet  to  east  and  west  of  him 
it  was  ordered  that  the  American  should  be 
[47] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

sent  to  England.  The  wound  in  the  hip 
was  healing,  but  the  same  shell  had  done 
something  to  a  great  knot  of  muscles  below 
the  knee,  and  the  doctor  told  him  briskly 
that  the  bursa  was  gravely  injured  and  that 
it  was  a  question  if  he  would  ever  walk 
"decently,"  as  the  German  boy  put  it,  again. 
Not  for  a  year  or  two  at  best.  So  he  was 
honorably  discharged. 

There  were  people  in  England  anxious  to 
be  good  to  him,  and  into  their  hands  he  was 
delivered,  a  skeleton  on  crutches,  in  the  early 
spring.  It  was  late  May  before  the  ocean 
crossing  could  be  considered,  and  on  a  June 
afternoon  he  hobbled  for  the  first  time  into 
the  wide,  quiet  library  at  home,  windows 
being  open  and  roses  blowing  pink  where 
pink  phloxes  had  blown  last  August.  They 
sat  on  the  great  sofa,  the  boy  and  his 
mother,  hand  in  hand,  and  said  nothing 
contentedly. 

Then  by  slow  stages,  a  little  at  a  time,  they 
fell  to  talking,  till  after  a  while  the  boy  had 
told  about  Lefty  and  the  field  of  the  Yser  and 
the  two  enemies  in  the  hospital  cots  who  had 
so  become  his  friends  that  his  voice  wavered 
and  stopped  as  he  told.  He  had  lived,  this 
boy ;  he  had  got  down  to  realities. 
[48] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"Meggy,  the  three  things  which  I  specified 
as  being  different  forever  for  you  and  me  — 
I've  come  around  to  you  on  all  of  them.  I 
was  a  narrow  cad,  don't  you  know ;  but  I've 
learned  my  lesson  and  I'll  try  my  darnedest 
to  remember  it.  I  paid  —  fairly  high  for 
that  lesson,"  the  boy  considered. 
\  "I  did,  too.,"  spoke  softly  the  woman  who 
had  stayed  at  home.  She  looked  at  him,  the 
same  boy  as  last  August.  The  young  bloom 
gone,  jaw  squared,  lean  cheeks  colorless, 
hollow  eyes  shining  with  a  new  look,  intense, 
at  peace;  a  soul  had  come  into  its  own. 
"Out  of  the  depths,"  the  boy's  mother  spoke 
and  could  speak  no  more. 

Leaving  the  things  unsaid  which  need  no 
saying  she  drew  a  long  breath  and  began  in 
another  tone:  "There's  one  friend  of  yours 
you  haven't  told  me  about." 

"Huh?"  Philip  demanded. 

"The  Belgian  girl  you  saved  in  Dixmude." 

"By  gum!"  remarked  Philip.  "I  forgot 
all  about  her.  How  did  you  know?  Did  I 
write  you  ?  Anyhow,  I  didn't  save  her ;  we 
only  stuck  in  the  attic." 

"She  thinks  you  saved  her." 

"She  thinks "  Philip's  eyes  widened, 

"She's  here." 

[49] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"Here?"  He  certainly  was  surprised. 
"You  mean  she  came  over  —  to  you?" 

"Her  father  was  killed.  She  had  no  one 
left.  You  had  given  her  a  note  to  me." 

"I  remember." 

"Did  you  think  that  note,  in  pencil,  on  a 
torn  scrap  of  paper,  from  you  —  did  you 
think  it  would  mean  nothing  to  me?" 

"Meggy!  You  looked  after  her?  You 
lamb  !  Was  she  a  horrid  nuisance  ? " 

Margaret  Landicutt  hesitated.  "She's  — 
I  think  she  is  the  most  heavenly  human 
being  I've  ever  seen." 

"You  don't  say."  Philip  was  pleased  but 
not  greatly  interested.  "What  did  you 
make  of  the  heavenly  human?  Adopted 
daughter  or  seamstress  —  By  ginger  !  Here's 
Uncle  Jemmy.  Hello,  Uncle  Jemmy  !  How 
are  you?  Looking  fit  as  a  fiddle.  Years 
younger  than  this  veteran.  Treat  me  with 
respect,  please ;  I'm  old  and  war-worn." 

Uncle  Jemmy  put  up  his  tortoise-shell 
glasses  and  stared  at  the  boy;  took  them 
down,  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  rubbed 
them ;  left  them  swinging  on  the  silk  ribbon 
and  dropped  the  handkerchief.  He  gazed 
down  at  immaculate  shoes  and  appeared  to 
see  dust  on  his  gray  silk  stockings,  which  he 
[50] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

flicked  at  with  the  recovered  handkerchief. 
He  stared  again  at  Philip.  Finally: 
"Those  roses  of  yours  are  immensely  better 
than  mine,  Margaret.  My  man  is  a  lazy 
fool."  With  that  he  snatched  Philip's 
hands.  "My  boy,  I'm  glad  —  I'm  glad  — " 
he  stopped  abruptly  and  discovered  more 
dust  on  the  blameless  stockings. 

With  that  Mrs.  Landicutt  took  charge  and 
in  two  minutes  they  were  talking  calmly. 
Uncle  Jemmy  seated,  stately  and  cool,  as  if 
no  soft-heartedness  had  shipwrecked  him. 

"We  were  talking,"  Philip  pronounced  in  a 
society  manner,  "about  some  salvage  of  mine 
—  a  salvage,  to  be  explicit  —  in  the  girl  line. 
It  seems  I  salvaged  her  by  heroically  sitting 
in  an  attic  ten  hours  along  of  her.  I'd  clean 
forgotten.  Meggy  allows  she's  the  queen  of 
the  archangels." 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  inquired  Uncle 
Jemmy. 

"No." 

"An  extraordinary  beauty  !"  Uncle  Jemmy 
permitted  himself  to  remark,  and  proceeded 
at  a  sharp  angle  to  other  topics.  "I  hear 
that  you're  going  into  philanthropy." 

"Social  work,"  Philip  amended  cheerfully. 

Uncle  Jemmy  smiled  —  indulgent,  amused. 
[51] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"  It's  a  departure  for  a  man  of  our  family,  but 
not  discreditable.  You'll  come  back  to  the 
business.  There's  a  large  amount  of  money 
in  steel  in  the  next  decade." 

"I  don't  need  any  more  money,"  Philip 
stated. 

Uncle  Jemmy  lifted  his  eyebrows. 
"That's  a  contradiction  in  terms,"  he  spoke 
gently,  in  his  clean-cut,  cultivated  tones. 
"Everybody  needs  more  money,  as  long  as 
there  is  more."  Then,  with  a  visible  effort  at 
shifting  to  the  boy's  point  of  view :  "  If  you 
wish  to  be  philanthropic,  my  lad,  the  safest 
way  is  to  amass  a  large  fortune  and  use  it  for 
charitable  purposes.  Some  of  it,"  qualified 
Uncle  Jemmy. 

"We've  got  a  large  fortune,  Meggy  and  I, 
already  amassed.  The  point  is  how  to  get 
rid  of  most  of  it." 

"Get  rid  — good  Lord!" 

"Uh-huh,"  Philip  nodded.  "Uncle 
Jemmy,  look  at  it  the  way  it  is.  I  haven't 
come  out  of  this  six  months  the  same  as  I 
went  in.  It  would  take  me  a  week  to  explain, 
and  then  you'd  think  I  was  dotty,  so  I'll  cut 
that  out.  But  I'm  no  American  Hohen- 
zollern  any  more  —  I  don't  believe  in  the 
divine  right  of  a  Landicutt  to  all  the  chances." 

[52] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"What!"  demanded  an  outraged  Uncle 
Jemmy. 

"I  don't.  I'm  going  to  do  my  prettiest  to 
give  some  other  chaps  a  chance,  who  have  as 
good  a  right  as  I.  You  see"  -  Philip  cleared 
his  throat,  and  a  slow  red  flushing  his  thin 
face  showed  that  he  was  doing  a  hard  thing ; 
he  went  on  in  tones  a  bit  wooden  for  the  effort 
it  was  to  get  them  out  —  "you  see,  one  day 
when  I  was  rather  close  to  death  I  made  a 
promise.  I  promised  —  the  Lord  —  that  if 
I  should  have  my  life  back  I'd  use  it  to  do 
His  work  on  earth.  And  I've  got  it  back. 
And  a  gentleman  keeps  his  promise.  Gentle 
man  ! "  He  laughed  a  little.  "I  thought  I'd 
got  beyond  that  old  shibboleth." 

"Old  shibboleth!"  Uncle  Jemmy  was  dis 
tinctly  offended. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean"  —  Philip  smiled  with 
that  newly  acquired  old-young  smile  which 
brought  out  the  deep  lines  and  the  radiance 
of  his  tired  eyes  —  "I  don't  mean  I  want  to 
be  a  bounder,  Uncle  Jemmy.  Only  —  there's 
a  thing  a  cut  higher  than  a  gentleman.  And 
a  common  man  can  be  that.  I  know."  He 
was  thinking  of  Lefty. 

"So  you've  turned  religious,  have  you?" 
Uncle     Jemmy     inquired     sharply.      Philip 
[53] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

nodded  and  felt  his  mother's  fingers.  "You'd 
call  it  that,"  he  said. 

"You  really  believe  that  some  Unseen 
Power  made  a  bargain  with  you  :  'I'll  swap 
your  life  for  a  promise  to  be  My  servant'  ?" 

Philip  considered,  his  mind  now  on  that 
tremendous  hour  by  the  Yser,  and  not  on 
Uncle  Jemmy.  "'Some  Unseen  Power'  — 
that's  it.  But  a  Power  —  great  Scott !  a 
Power !  I  don't  know  about  swapping ;  the 
bargain  was  my  feeble  idea.  But  I  made  a 
promise,  and  I'll  keep  it.  I  was  lifted  —  out 
of  the  depths.  Some  things  a  person  knows 
without  reasoning.  If  you  get  very  far  down 
and  are  pulled  out  you  learn  that.  You  pass 
by  other  roads  than  reason  to  some  solutions. 
Maybe  they  include  reason,  those  straight, 
hidden  ways  —  I  don't  know.  Brains  aren't 
built  to  know.  But  the  things  that  matter  — 
love  and  faith  and  the  hope  of  eternity  —  we 
have  to  accept  with  precious  little  help  from 
reason.  We've  got  to  resign  ourselves  to 
that,  consciously  or  unconsciously." 

Uncle  Jemmy  rose  to  his  distinguished 
height  —  scornful,  dignified.  "Since  you 
have  become  a  mystic,  Philip,"  he  stated, 
''you  and  I  will  have  less  in  common.  I  never 
appreciated  mysticism.  I  hope,  at  least, 
[54] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

you'll  take  no  irretrievable  steps  with  your 
fortune.  Don't  let  him,  Margaret,"  he  ap 
pealed.  Philip's  head  went  back  in  a  shout 
of  boyish  laughter  and  a  crutch  fell  rattling. 

"Me  a  mystic!"  he  flung  at  the  older 
man.  "Holy  Mike!  Uncle  Jemmy,  you're 
the  droll  one.  Why,  bless*,  you,  sir,  I'm 
going  in  for  the  most  practical  things  ever 
heard  of  —  Meggy's  keen  about  it.  A  won 
derful  girls'  club  for  her  and  a  boys'  for  mine ; 
why,  you'll  be  in  it  heart  and  soul  in  six 
months  yourself." 

He  made  a  skillful  dive  for  the  crutch  on 
the  floor  and  caught  it  and  swung  himself  to 
his  feet,  and  the  two  tall  men,  with  the  family 
look  —  strong,  alike,  different  —  in  the  faces, 
stared  at  each  other. 

And  with  that  Uncle  Jemmy's  glance  fell 
on  the  crutches,  and  then  wandered  back  to 
the  curved  young  cheeks,  the  burning,  smil 
ing  eyes.  His  look  softened.  He  put  a  hand 
on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"My  lad,"  he  said,  "it  really  doesn't 
matter  what  you  do  or  think.  What  matters 
is,  that  we've  got  you  back.  Throw  away 
your  money  —  there's  a  margin ;  believe  in  a 
dozen  religions 

"I  do,"  smiled  Philip. 
[55] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

"Only  get  strong " 

There  was  a  light  sound.  Philip  swung 
about  on  his  crutches.  A  tall  girl  in  white 
stood  in  the  wide  doorway ;  a  pile  of  astonish 
ing  bright  hair  appeared  to  radiate  light; 
dark  eyes  gazed,  blazed  toward  Philip ;  the 
young  face,  oval,  childlike,  seemed  yet  to  have 
known  all  the  sorrow  of  life;  the  face  of  a 
child,  of  a  martyr.  It  was  as  if  a  stained- 
glass  window  swimming  with  sunlight  sent 
down  one  of  its  tall  angels  to  stand  in  the 
doorway. 

With  that  she  was  close,  and  he  knew  her 
now,  his  "salvage,"  the  forgotten  little  girl 
of  the  attic  of  Dixmude.  Her  eyes  shining 
almost  on  a  level  with  his  eyes,  she  gazed  at 
him,  and  her  face  grew  slowly  luminous  till 
Philip  remembered  that  his  mother  had  said 
that  the  child  was  "heavenly." 

"One  does  not  say  'Thank  you,'  for  such 
things  like  as  you  have  done."  She  began  to 
speak  in  a  low  tone  yet  with  the  fire  of  the 
eyes  through  the  halting  words.  "  You  saved 
my  life;  it  is  much.  You  fought  for  Bel 
gium  ;  that  is  more.  You  who  did  not  have, 
who  were  safe  and  of  good  honor  here,  you 
went  to  that  dreadful  place  and  fought  be 
cause  you  were  so  great  big-hearted.  You 
[56] 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

threw  away  your  life  —  oh,  many  times !  — • 
for  us,  and  for  the  Tightness ;  it  is  that  to  be 
a  hero.  And  every  Belgian  owes  you  —  I 
owe  you  —  the  life  for  you  to  use." 

She  stopped,  and  the  three  people,  word 
less,  stared  at  her.  To  the  tall  boy  on 
crutches  there  came  suddenly,  not  phrased, 
not  recognized,  but  overpoweringly  sweet,  on 
the  fringe  of  his  consciousness  as  yet,  the 
dawn  of  a  knowledge.  This  face  which  he 
had  forgotten,  this  illuminated,  racked  young 
face,  with  the  unbeaten  soul  looking  from  it, 
the  soul  which  like  his  own  had  "gone  through 
fire  and  come  out  unscarred"  —  this  girl's 
face  might  be  for  him 

.  .  .  the  face  that  launch 'd  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium. 

The  soft  voice  went  on :  "I  am  glad  I  owe 
you  my  life.  I  will  be  your  servant  with 
gladness  for  as  long  time  as  you  live." 

And  suddenly  Philip,  swaying  on  his 
crutches,  felt  with  an  astonishing  thrill  the 
clasp  of  hands  about  his  ankles,  looked  down 
once  again  at  a  bright  head  against  his  feet. 

"Good  heavens!"  groaned  Philip  un 
happily.  "Oh,  don't!  Oh  —  get  her  up, 
Uncle  Jemmy!" 

[571 


THE  THREE  THINGS 

But  it  was  his  mother  who  lifted  her,  and 
the  two  held  together  —  the  two  very  beau 
tiful  women  —  as  his  mother  put  an  arm 
about  the  girl,  laughing,  crying. 

"Not  his  servant,  dear  child.  We'll  try  to 
find  a  better  way  than  that." 

Uncle  Jemmy,  refuged  from  the  scene  be 
hind  his  Jacobean  chair,  folded  his  arms 
across  the  tall  back  and  regarded  the  group, 
amused,  sardonic,  not  unsentimental. 

"I  think  it  quite  likely,"  observed  Uncle 
Jemmy,  "that  among  us  we  may  f> ad  a  better 
way  than  that." 


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